


Same Old Road

by Atanih88



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-26
Updated: 2011-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 02:07:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/pseuds/Atanih88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking in all his memories at once has broken barriers in Sam's mind he didn't even know existed and he finds himself in possession of old powers he no longer has control of. But the brothers take it in stride, settling back into the close familiarity that allows them to hold it together long enough to find what they need to get to Castiel. It comes down to a box. Just a small box made from the bones of the fingers of a long dead demi-goddess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Same Old Road

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: If you've made it this far then I want to thank you very much for giving this fic a go,it's been a majorly bumpy ride with this one and I'm honstely surprised that I got here lol.
> 
> I have to say, the bets part of this turned out to be being paired up with tringic, we pretty much supported each other from day one and she was amazing to work with and produced all the gorgeous art work you've seen here to go along with the fic (you have no idea how epic she was, like a superhero, seriously she has NINJA QUALITIES!) It was great fun and I'd love so much to work with her again. If you haven't gone to the Art Master Post, seriously, this is the time to do it, I can't stress it enough (I MEAN HAVE YOU SEEN THE BOX SHE MADE? *_*)
> 
> I'd also like to thank theskywasblue who stepped in at the last minute when I was having a crisis and needed someone to give the fic a look over and some quick editing. She too was very ninja like with her editing! My hands were last on the fic though, so any and all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Also, audreytiphaine beacause she's basically (aside from tringic), the person who had to deal with all my crazy rants. I'm sorry <3
> 
> Many thanks to cordelia_gray and neros_violin for hosting the challenge and putting up with us :)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed the fic and art! We definitely worked hard to get it all done and, yeah :D that's pretty much it. ♥

The bag handles looped around Dean’s wrist snap taut with every running step, the object inside jerk down so hard it feels like the cords are going to snap off his wrist. It’s gonna leave a hell of a burn later but right now they’re hauling ass to the car and that’s the only thing in his mind.

Sam is running beside him, breathing loud as Dean as they run down the main street. The sound of the alarm pounds at their backs as does the sound of the seven demons giving chase. Dean chances a look over his shoulder--maybe nine. He catches Sam's eye just as they turn, leaving the false safety of street lights behind them and into the car park. The large river running in front of it is a mass of shifting black, small white shapes ghost like as they wink in and out of view on the surface. The night smells of sewage and frost.

Dean slips on a patch of ice but catches himself just in time. The air is so cold it burns his throat, sears his lungs too and they must be running pretty damn fast because his chest feels like it’s wound too tight and like it tightens just a bit more it’s gonna collapse on him. He can’t hear the alarm anymore but the demons are still behind them.

At the end of a row of cars, the Impala gleams dully from where it's parked. A grey slush that gleams wetly in the weak streetlamps surrounding its tires.

"Sam."

Sam nods and Dean yanks the bag around his wrist back up, cradles it to his chest. He fishes the keys out and tosses them to Sam. Sam snatches them out of the air without breaking stride and pulls out a little further, pants harsh and loud as he runs on ahead of Dean.

They reach the car as the first growl sounds too close for Dean's comfort and the hairs on his arm stand on end at it. The sense memory is almost overwhelming and even as he’s grabbing hold of the door handle, he’s expecting to feel the warm, rotten breath of a hell hound against his cheek and the vicious rip of claws on his back.

Dean slips inside and Sam's already slamming the door closed, car purring. Dean’s door shuts and Sam peels out of the parking lot just as something slams into the back of the car.

"Fuck." Dean curses, twists in his seat, pretty sure that if they’ve just put another dent in his car, hell dogs or no he’s gonna be ripping someone a new one, damn it. He sees nothing though, just catches sight of the demon go down. The car jolts and bounces—Dean's pretty sure that's the crunch of some bones right there—and then they're tearing out of there before the rest manage to get to them.

Dean watches them try to give chase in the side mirror, but they give up pretty quick, falling back and becoming little stick doodles in the distance. It almost makes him miss the old demons, they weren’t this pathetic.

Finally he rests his head back against his seat and eases the grip he has on the bag; glances down at it. "Man. Think we're getting too old for this shit?" he asks. He glances at Sam.

Sam's jaw is tight and his eyes are intent on the road, he doesn’t reply, just gives a short, sharp shake of the head. It makes him look harder, made of stone as the streetlights flow over his face, falling on his cheekbones in lime white.

"We would've gotten out of it."

"Not without the box. How did they even know about it, Dean?"

Dean shifts in his seat, sitting upright and setting the thing down on his lap. He lifts a hand to rub across his left shoulder, fingers digging in and kneading the still sore muscle. He sees the sideways glance that draws from Sam, the way Sam's jaw tightens even more and his fingers clench around the steering wheel like he's about to tear it out. Dean drops his hand and looks back down at the bag before pulling at the drawstring on it.

Sam looks at him quickly. "What are you doing? Bobby—"

"Just making sure we risked our asses for the right thing."

"Dean, if you touch that th—"

Dean stops and just looks at him. "Dude. I know." Then he goes back to the task at hand and reaches inside. The cloth wrapped around the box is rough; the rich blue that still exists around the edges faded and threadbare at the center of it. He feels the hard ridges, his thumb bumping over each rise and fall of the bone. It feels almost like running his thumb over his ribcage, feeling them bump by bump. He stops feeling around it, realizes that he’s grinding his molars together and he doesn’t actually want to be touching it.

He pulls it out anyway. Sam’s attention keeps swapping from the road to Dean and back to the road again. His fingers are wrapped too tight around the steering wheel.

The sound of the engine is the only noise in the car.

Careful to keep his fingers from touching the box directly, Dean pulls the cloth off. It slips off slowly, like it's got a mind of its own and doesn't want to reveal what its hiding. But it pools on Dean's lap and he's staring down at it.

Dean’s seen some pretty freaky things but this thing, this thing is making his skin crawl. Maybe because it’s too neat, the way the bones slot together, smooth and cleaned. It looks like a mini rib cage that's been forced to lock together. There’s an unnatural brightness to it took, like staring at something bright that’s under the full glare of the sun. Dean can feel the cold of it where it sits on his lap. It seeps through the cloth it’s on and through his jeans, as if the ridges of bone were pressing directly onto the skin of his thigh. Yeah. He’s pretty sure they got the right thing.

"Cover it up Dean."

Dean blinks. He looks at Sam and there's a confusing moment where he feels surprised to see Sam sitting there. But Sam is tense and staring straight ahead. Dean notices that he's shifting in his seat and his shoulder is now completely pressed to the window. Like he’s shrinking away from it.

"Just. Cover it up."

Dean swallows, throat tight and nods. His fingers aren't quite steady as they pick up the edges of the cloth and he carefully folds it back around the box before tucking it into the bag once again. He tucks it into the foot well but the bumps of the road have the thing tumbling onto Dean’s foot. Dean’s tempted to kick it off.

"You know where to go?" Dean asks.

"Yes."

"Alright. I'm gonna try and get some shut eye. Wake me when it’s my turn." He edges his foot away from the thing anyway and leans his head against the window.

Sam flicks a look over at him and nods. "Alright."

~

The rain is a weak drizzle dotting the windshield as Dean maneuvers the car along the narrow makeshift road. With every bump, he grits his teeth, thinks of all the work they've put in just to make sure the car was in driving shape. Just enough for them to keep a self-acclaimed God off their trail. As best as they can anyway. How does someone hide from the all-seeing?

In the other seat, Sam sleeps. He looks uncomfortable, shoulders hunched away from the seat, curling in on himself instead. His head rests against the window pane, lolling with every sway and jerk of the car. His breath fogs up the glass in a little circle, filling and receding in time with the rise and fall of his chest. He's out for the count and Dean feels a little grateful for that.

They still don’t know the full extent of the consequences for Sam taking on all those memories--they’ve got an idea of some, but definitely not all.

It’s at least all kinds of a step up from a drooling Sam with a brain that's been fried to Hell. Not ideal but, they’d been dealing with ‘not ideal’ for the majority of their lives.

Dean keeps an eye on the trees either side of them, they’re a bit too close for comfort. The road really isn’t worth shit. At this distance though, he sees where the road tapers to an end. He leans forward, peering through the half-assed rain to get a good look out and he can just make out the porch of the small house that's hidden by ancient tree trunks.

Well, at least they don't have to drive around like a bunch of idiots anymore.

He drives a little further down, car shaking with the uneven ground. He manages to nose it in just behind the trees forming a loose circle around the house, creating a little clearing for it. He frowns up at the sky but he can’t see that much of it. The trees are tall and their branches, bare and gnarled overlap with each other, like an old crone’s steepled fingers. The stray leaves are browned and thin, they look like they can’t take the weight of the weak rain.

He cuts the ignition, the song that had been on low stops too, leaving only the soft sound of the rain and Sam’s even breaths.

Dean looks at him. Sam hadn’t so much as stirred with the bumpy ride and even now, he just continues breathing in steady and calm. It’s a rare thing these days.

With no other destination just then, Dean allows himself a little rest too. His shoulder’s stiff and the pain’s radiating down his arm. Not that he’ll say anything about it but it doesn’t hurt to just sit back for a moment. His eyes flick to bit of the house he can see and then back to his brother. It’s something he’s more conscious of doing now. Looking at Sam, making sure Sam is there next to him and okay. Not on the floor, body stiff from the effort of holding back whatever had been behind that wall that now ran around loose inside his head.

Sam’s mouth is slack and shifting with the quiet breaths leaving him. Under his eyes, the skin has taken on a delicate pearly green color, a sign that the snatched hours of sleep aren’t enough. It's one thing living on three or four hours of sleep when you’re only marginally screwed in the head. But when even awake, you’re struggling to swim through a warped sense of reality, it’s not gonna do anyone any good. Especially not when it seemed to be triggering abilities Dean had been happy to bid goodbye to a long time ago.

Well, maybe they’ll have a little time to deal with that now.

Just thinking about it sets Dean's teeth on edge. He locks his jaw tight, rubs a hand over his mouth and feels the touch of anger mingled with resentment twist together in his stomach as he remembers how they’d had to turn tail and run. They stopped long enough to tow back the Impala, fix it up as good as they could to get back on the road and split.

The fact that they'd been thrown clear of the building with the explosion of Castiel's disappearance had been a miracle Dean didn't want to look too closely at.

As far as he was concerned people up there had stopped looking out for them a long time ago. If they ever had.

There'd been Cas, he thinks, the thought unbidden.

Dean shakes his head, shoves it out of his mind for now.

He gets out of the car, careful with the door. No need for Sam to wake up just yet.

The rain that touches him is no more than a spray, dampening his skin and leaving a cold tingle peppering his face. It’s weak enough that he wonders how it’s even making it past the trees.

His boots squish down on the rain softened dirt, avoiding the little pools here and there from where the rain had probably been heavier a little earlier.

It’s quiet, no sounds of nearby cars or anything else other than the wildlife hiding in the surrounding woodland. He fixes his eyes on the little corner of the house he can see and takes out his gun, checks the magazines as he walks. The car would've alerted anyone in there to their arrival, but never hurts to double check.

He follows the sharp curve of the trail, flicking a look back; manages make out Sam's face behind the reflection of the windshield.

The house is just another thing they hadn't known about their dad. Something else, that when Bobby had suggested they use, they'd looked at him and then at each other, an unsaid _damn bastard_ , more than loud enough in the room. And in Wisconsin. They'd been here dozens of times and hadn't known that, instead of bunking down in all of those damn motels there may have been somewhere where they could've been safe. A place where, maybe, they could’ve just taken some time out from the game. Not that they would've. No. They probably would've stopped by and then moved on anyway. They never had been the type to take breaks, not even when things were quiet. Taking breaks just wasn’t in the Winchester book it seemed.

The house comes fully into view then and it’s only a lifetime of being on his guard that keeps his gun hand from falling to his side in awed shock. Okay so his mouth is gaping open a little.

He'd been expecting a little shack falling to the ground in the middle of nowhere. This is a small house that is very much intact and in a lot better condition than a lot of motels they’d stayed at. Judging by the size of it, probably a one bedroom or something like that, no more than a floor but. A house. A frigging _house_.

Dean walks around it, still on point as he tries to get a look in through the windows. He flattens himself against the wall, soft with moss and smelling like it too. When he peers in, there isn't much to see. The dust is heavy, a thick layer over a small low table and one sorry looking couch. Seems to be open plan, there's a small kitchen there. A cupboard door hanging on its hinges and a sheet covering what Dean thinks is probably the stove.

He aims another look back at the car before making his way to the front of the house, crouching slightly as he avoids passing fully in front of the windows.

There's a porch. Or, what used to be a porch, the wood’s cracked in places and some of it looks worn enough that Dean's pretty sure all it would take would be one step and his leg would go right through it.

He makes it makes it across to the door alright though. He lowers the gun to his side and reaches into his pocket for the old key Bobby had given him before they'd left his place. It sticks a little in the keyhole and then the door sticks too. Dean adds a heavy push of his shoulder and it opens up with a puff of dust.

It slams back and bounces off a wall and Dean winces. His eyes dart over the interior, grip tightened on his gun as he checks to make sure he hadn’t just completely blown their cover. But the place stays quiet, nothing out of the ordinary.

He steps inside, a creak accompanying the first step as the floor takes on the first real weight it's seen in probably a little over seven years. He clicks the safety on but keeps the gun in hand as he makes his way into the place.

Under the musk of age and the dust messing with his nose, there's a familiar smell. The same smell that used to fill the Impala before it'd been Dean's, the one that used to be all over Dad's armchair in their living room back in Kansas. Dean remembers sitting on that armchair with Sam in his arms, waiting for Dad to come back late on a particular night. Those were one of the unhappier memories. His Mom alone in the kitchen, hiding the fact that it wasn't all okay and Dean comforting his little brother, not really seeing the cartoons on the TV. The chair had smelt like Dad and that's why he'd sat there, so Sam would know it too, what their Dad smelt like and be calmed by it.

He leans his shoulder against the door frame and stares at the place for a second, a little stumped by how something he thought he’d forgotten had just come back like that, triggered by nothing more than a hint of an old smell.

His first impression of the house wasn't wrong. It’s one big room; only one door leading to another room that he assumes is probably a bathroom. There’s the low table, the couch, the small kitchen with the window over the sink. Dean can just about make out the shapes of the trees through the dirty window panes. There’s another small room, on the right side of the bathroom and Dean can make out the rusty leg of a bed, sheets spilling onto the floor. There’s a couple of holes on them and Dean’s pretty sure that wasn’t their original color.

The bed is the only thing that proves anyone had been here at all. Everything else, there’s no sign the place had ever been inhabited.

He makes his way further into the room, hand relaxed on the gun now that it’s obvious there’s no threat.

Until they get word from Bobby, this seems to be as good a place to lie low as any.

He’s tucking the gun away when he hears the heavy steps.

He looks over his shoulder and sees Sam coming up. He wonders briefly if the porch can actually take Sam's gigantor weight but then Sam's form fills the doorway, head almost brushing the top of the door frame. He's got one hand rubbing at his eyes but he drops it with a sigh and looks around the place before focusing on Dean. He doesn't look as tired as he had earlier although there are still traces of the drowsiness on his face.

"This it?" Sam asks.

"Looks like."

"Smells like him," Sam says and he looks at Dean. He smiles at Dean, but it’s small, the edges of his mouth not quite managing to do it properly.

Dean nods. "Yeah."

"I'll go get our stuff."

"Okay, don't touch the box though."

Sam scowls at him over his shoulder but keeps going.

Dean leaves the door open as he follows, eyes on Sam's back. He feels a touch of pride, watching Sam walk, back straight and head held high despite everything.

This probably won't blow over like they want it to. But when have things ever gone their way?

He follows his brother's lead and wonders if they'll have electricity and water for the night.

~

The box, they'd found out, was one of five, a set known as the Prisons of Amataresu. Dean isn't quite sure what one had to do with the other, but Sam had gone on about missing suns and death and imprisonment yada, yada. He'd tuned out at some point because pie had been put on the table and both Sam and Bobby had said this was a good bet.

Made from the bones of a goddess, its power was to draw out souls and trap them inside. A Pandora's box for douchebag souls. How it did it though, remains a mystery and it’s something they’re still working on.

Right now though, the thing resting inside the bag on the dust covered table is the best chance they've got against a friend who’s going around high on soul-crack.

Problem is a) Sam can't go near the thing because it can send him off into the land of crazy, so b) Dean is the one left handling it. And Dean doesn't particularly like the thing and rumor has it, it doesn't take much for the box to self-activate and draw the souls out of someone all on their own.

The door to the bathroom opens and Dean cranes his neck to look.

Sam's looking miles better than he'd been for the past week. He stops just outside the door. His t-shirt is a darker grey over his shoulders and chest where he hadn’t quite wiped the water off and it’s soaked through.

"Hot water's working fine," he says and his dimples flash, quick and then gone again, "been a while," he glances back over his shoulder, "should be some left though."

Dean nods, tosses the remote aside leaving the ancient TV on and stands up. Good thing about the hot water. His shoulder's stiff as a bitch and it'll go a long way to soothing it.

As if he’s read Dean’s mind, Sam’s eyes flick down to Dean’s shoulder. He stays where he is Dean walks over. He’s frowning, lines creasing his forehead. His hair is slicked back from his face, but it’s still dripping a little. The water runs down the sides of his neck, a few fall on the floor. Sam pushes it back from his face anyway. Dean doesn’t particularly care if Sam wants to just stand there and drip all over the floor, except he’d rather he went and did it somewhere else because that hot shower has his name on it.

So he feels a little snap of irritation when Sam doesn’t budge. "What?"

Sam licks his lips; rubs his hands on his jeans."I think you should let me take a look at it."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Man, I'm tired. Let me get my shower and we'll—"

He doesn't quite manage to get past Sam because Sam grabs his shoulder hard enough that Dean jerks back, yanking his shoulder out from underneath him; the pain is already spearing deep, right down to the bone. Dean glares up at him. "You gonna move?"

Sam stretches up to his full height, looking down at Dean with a bitchy, stubborn set to his mouth. "It still hurts."

"No shit Sherlock," Dean snaps. This time he does shove past him. He hears the beginning of his name and slams the door shut behind him, cutting Sam off and what he’d been about to say. He rests back against the door and leans his head against it.

The bathroom is all steamed up and the curls of steam brush against his skin. He realizes he’s left his stuff outside. And pulling off his clothes isn’t gonna be pretty.

He grits his teeth and gets on with it.

~

Dean opens his eyes to the sound of glass shattering. Sleep takes a quick backseat as he goes on automatic, already trying to figure out what the problem is before he’s fully awake.

"What the—"

The blanket falls away from where he'd tucked it up against his neck. He stares out the windshield for a moment, uncomprehending and he can't see past the drops of rain littering the glass, the droplets gleam yellow, leftover color from the street lamp a little further down the street. There's no rain pattering the roof of the Impala though and the little hidden spot just off the road that he’d slipped the car into is quiet.

Then he hears a hushed curse. His looks at the rearview mirror.

In the back of the car, Sam’s pulling himself up. He flinches as his hands press down on the seat and Dean twists round in his seat, eyes wide. He looks from Sam to the shattered glass littering the brown of Sam’s jacket and the back seat. Broken pieces gleam from where they're scattered over the foot well too. Sam is hunched down trying to keep his head from hitting the roof.

"Sam?"

Sam glances up at him and there's a grimace on his face. Dean thinks he sees a cut on his forehead but he's still not even sure what the hell just happened and so he sits there staring at Sam.

"I don't know, man,” Sam says.

Dean's jaw clenches as instinct over. He’s got the door open and one foot out on the tufts of grass when Sam leans forward and grabs him, hand locking tight around his arm. Dean stops, glancing down Sam’s hand in surprise. "What?"

Sam's gaze is steady on him, but in the dark interior of the car they look a little feverish. Dean straightens up, eyes narrowing on his brother when Sam's mouth seals shut in a tight line. Then Sam opens his mouth. Closes it again. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet and he’s not looking at Dean. "Dean. I think it was me."

Dean blinks at him. His mouth is dry and he thinks it might be from sleep. His gaze slips away from Sam and to the shattered glass.

Sam's eyes are back on him, cautious and waiting.

And Dean’s not sure what in the fuck he’s supposed to say here. So he turns in his seat and faces the front again.

This time he stares long enough that he can see past the droplets of rain, seeing a distorted version of the bushes surrounding them, a lush dark green that blends with the night.

That's two weeks before they locate the box.

That’s the moment where it clicks. The little tremors that have been waking them up every now and then in the middle of the night, the misplaced things that Sam swears he hasn’t touched; they’re all Sam. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe he can deal with it.

This is familiar. This is something they've already been through and Dean likes to think that neither of them will make the same mistakes twice.

It doesn't matter that it's bullshit.

Five days later, a spike goes clean through Dean's shoulder after he's yanked away from a bunch of bastard demons. There’s no control to it and Dean slams into it without even seeing it coming.

Sam is the one who’d pulled him away.

He did it all without once putting his hands on Dean.

~

The box is on the floor, tucked into a corner of the room still wrapped in its protective layers. Right above it one long strip of wallpaper is coming unstuck from the wall, bending backwards in a lazy droop. Dean's trying hard forget the thing is there but every time his eyes so much as ghost over the lump of a bag, it feels like centipede legs crawling all over his skin.

There's just the one bed and outside the wind has picked up. Sam is a warmth pressed along the line of his back and they've managed to spread the blankets they keep in the back of the trunk over them both. But neither of them are sleeping.

Dean really is going to have to go and take a look up on that roof. There's something banging around up there. The wind playing its own little tune and it's leaving Dean cranky and pissed. Beside him Sam is quiet and still, his breathing the only comforting thing in the room.

Above it all Dean can hear the ticking of his watch, a steady tick, tick, tick. He'd forgotten to take off before getting in. The only thing he'd taken off had been his boots. He bets there's snow coming too If the cold is anything to go by. It'd snuck up on them sometime while they'd moved their stuff into the place. It's the kind of cold that sinks into the fingertips and lodges there just under the nails, keeping the tips in ice points despite everything they've got on. He can't feel his toes much either and for a second he actually considers tucking his feet back and between Sam's. Except he's pretty sure he'd never live that down, so it's a no-go.

It's been a while since they've had to share a bed and as much as Dean would rather have his own space, this beats freezing his ass off on that poor excuse for a couch any day. They'd probably give themselves asthma breathing in the entire layers of dust on that thing. So yeah, this ain't so bad, especially when Sam's practically radiating heat.

He doesn't remember falling asleep.

He remembers counting the ticks and grinding his teeth at the noise coming up from the damn roof. And he remembers the chill of feeling like something inside that bag is alive and kicking and just waiting for him to shut his eyes.

~

In his dreams, a young woman sits at the end of the bed, eyes on him and Sam. Her long hair pools around china pale shoulders in ribbons of black. It looks as if it's trying to swallow her up. Her legs are crossed and her hands rest on her thighs, soft and delicate, sharp nails grazing softly over the skin. Between her teeth is the blade of a bone hilted knife.

Her eyes are glass blue and she's staring at Dean.

She's smiling at him.

~

When he wakes up the wind is still going strong but the roof isn't rattling much. Dean's watch isn’t ticking either.

Sam's asleep.

Dean rolls onto his back, shoulder digging into the middle of Sam's back and stares up at that damp stain on the ceiling for a little while.

Outside the fucking birds are singing, and Dean wishes this were where Snow White broke out into song, cleaned the hell out of this little shit hole and baked him some pie. Unfortunately, that's not how it goes in the real world. He wouldn't be surprised if it did happen though. He'd seen weirder shit.

But he's pretty sure Snow White wouldn't be walking back out after he'd put a bullet through her head that was for sure.

Sam turns on a huff of breath and Dean's own leaves him in a burst as Sam's elbow connects with his stomach and he nearly gets a knee to the groin. _That_ one he manages to deflect with a shove and an indignant, "Hey!"

He has the satisfaction of watching Sam's eyes blink open, disoriented and confused before Sam overbalances at the edge of the bed and his arms flail—like a fucking girl—before he falls and hits the floor with a healthy thump. Dean's mouth tips up into a full blown smile that's still a little lazy from sleep.

He scoots over to Sam's side, the bed is warm and a little damp—Sam's like a furnace and he sweats as if he's been sleeping in one—and looks over the edge of the bed where Sam is already sitting up, rubbing at the back of his head with a careful hand. His eyes narrow on Dean.

"What the hell, Dean?"

"Self defense man. You were assaulting me in my sleep."

"Yeah well, I think my brains are scrambled enough without you lending a hand asshole," Sam says, still rubbing at his head.

It's the right thing to say to wipe the smile off of Dean's face. He sits up, thumbing at what feels like drool at the corner of his mouth and wipes it off. He glances at his watch to check the time but the hands frozen at about half past one. He frowns.

Sam, noticing the change in Dean's mood drops his hand to his side. "Dean?"

Dean glances up from the watch and looks at Sam.

Sam's got that crease on his forehead and he's brushing the hair back from his face.

"How're you feeling?" Dean asks, and he's not just talking about Sam's screwed up mind.

The feeling that had followed him into sleep the night before remains, like something is slithering beneath the air of quiet and calm in the house. He glances over at the corner of the room. The bag is still there.

Sam blinks at him. "Good. Considering."

"Right," Dean nods, "considering." He sighs and then swings his legs over the side. "We need to figure out where to go from here, I know we're laying low but." He stares down at his watch.

Sam's quiet for a moment. Then he gets up and sits on the edge of the bed, his back to Dean. He sighs.

The t-shirt Sam's slept in is sticking to his back, not quite wet but with darker in some spots.

At that moment the old room smells of dust, warmth and Sam. It eases some of that underlying _wrongness_ in the room and Dean relaxes, echoing Sam's sigh. "We should start searching."

Sam lifts a hand and rubs his fingers in a firm press over his temple. Dean watches, seeing Sam's expression pinch and relax, mouth expressive and telling Dean that maybe this won't be one of their good mornings. It's looking like one of those where Sam might accidentally blow something up.

Then Sam is standing up, movement sure and decisive. "Yeah. We should start."

Dean rolls back, staying in bed a bit longer and staring up at the stain on the ceiling. The box edges back into his awareness the second Sam gets too far. The walls are thin and he can hear Sam taking a piss.

He rubs his eyes and tries to ignore the way the room gets colder.

That box is some bad mojo.

By the time Dean is out of the bed and making his way to see what little snacks they'd manage to bring in from the Impala, Sam is at the bathroom door brushing his teeth and watching Dean as he goes about putting together a breakfast composed of two snickers bars, days old doughnuts and energy drinks.

It's been a while since it's been just the two of them. Despite the shittiness of the their situation, as Dean takes a bite of the chocolate bar and grins, teeth full of chocolate just to see Sam frown at him, he thinks he doesn't mind this part of it all that much.

~

They've got the door wide open despite the rain pouring down, pounding the already wasted porch. The rain gathers in the lines of the wood and spills into the hole at the corner. But Dean's not complaining. Despite the cold, Dean's already gotten rid of his shirt. His t-shirt is like a second skin on his back and his forehead is dripping and not from the rain.

They've already thrown a cover over the Impala to keep it safe from the worst of the storm as they take the time to make themselves comfortable. There's not much they can do right now so they focus on fixing what can be fixed in the house.

Sam's at the table, laptop open. He'd managed to get a weak connection about two hours back and now he's sifting through any and every article that so much as touches on any kind of box lore. Just because they have to lie low doesn't mean they have to turn into complete sitting ducks. It's not in their nature. They're always restless, never staying in one place for long. Every time they have done, it's just ended in disaster. It could almost be said that Winchesters are allergic to domesticity. Well. The normal kind anyway.

Up until now though, they'd been systematically taking furniture outside, careful to avoid the bad parts of the porch and airing them out, getting the dust off and getting the rooms as useable as possible.

Dean's just about finished with fixing the cupboard door back into place with the things they'd picked up at the hardware store. He's only missing a last piece to fix the hinges into place.

Sam shifts in his seat. He's not looking at the laptop anymore. His gaze is fixed on the counter Dean's kneeling on.

Dean doesn't pay it much attention, reaching instead for the tub of screws there, leaving the screw turner on the counter.

"You realize if you weren't half-assing this, you'd be done already?" Sam says.

Dean's already opening his mouth to retort when the scrape of hard plastic and the shake of tiny bits of metal, slides across the counter and bumps against his knee.

Dean stops. For a moment he's just confused, feels like he's trying to fit a square into a circle shaped hole. The tub of screws is right up against his knee where it hadn't been before. And Dean had just heard it sliding across the counter.

He's still. The silence takes on a different feel. Sam doesn't say anything either.

Dean reaches down and picks one up. His fingers are surprisingly steady. He puts it in place and starts screwing it on.

"Think we should look for a hunt?"

Sam's reply, when it comes, is quiet. Dean goes on doing what he's doing. "I could take a look. See if there's something in the area."

"Alright."

~

Dean's not the only one wary of the box. Sam doesn't go near it either. It's not a conscious thing. But when Sam's near it he always gives it a wide birth. Considering the fact that Dean doesn't know what effect the thing would have on Sam's soul, Dean's fine with that. Especially when Sam's walking around like it's been stitched back up with uneven, messy stitches that itch inside his skin, just about ready to fall apart again.

So while Sam is in the shower washing off grime from their work on the house, Dean takes one of their extra blankets and kneels beside the bag. The shower runs in the background and the wind shoves at the house, its old joints creaking and protesting the battering. He almost recoils when he feels that curve of bone through the scrap of material. He's dealt with plenty of bones before but this feels different and he really doesn't want to know what would happen if he touched it properly.

He wraps it in the blanket and relieved when the thicker fabric doesn't outline the bones like the other one had. He pauses with it in his hand, its weight solid and real. He thinks of Cas trapped in the thing and his stomach tightens, an instinctive rejection that makes him swallow to get rid of the pressure just under his tongue and he presses it to the roof of his mouth. He's quick about putting the box back again.

Done with that he dusts his hands on his jeans, feeling like the box's creepiness is clinging to his hands and walks over to where the bathroom door is ajar. He pushes it in a little, letting the steam spill out in its thick curls.

From where he's standing he can see an entire strip of Sam, from shoulder all the way to thick corded thigh muscle. There are suds in his hair and slipping down his shoulders and lower back. He's got his head tipped back, Adam's apple jutting out as the spray of the shower hits him on the chin.

Dean raps his knuckles on the door and Sam dips his head back under the spray, washes it off and looks over his at him. He doesn't look particularly bothered by Dean standing there.

"You wanna maybe go and get something to eat?" he asks.

The water is hitting the side of his face now and Sam spits some water out, rubs another hand over his face before replying. "Yeah. Sure."

Dean nods and pushes away from the door, realizing he's going to have to touch the damn box again to lock it up safe while they're off. But as he walks back to the room, with the sound of the shower following him, he finds himself going back to the image of Sam, at ease, muscles relaxed under the hot water.  


~

Sam doesn't find anything.

The quiet around them gradually settles in, starts to feel normal. And Dean notices things, little things. Objects aren't moving on their own, the windows don't shatter and the ground doesn't tremble. And Sam spends a lot of time outdoors.

Sometimes, when they take a break he says he's going to get them something to eat and Dean watches him leave, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched against the rain. His boots squelch on the wet dirt and Dean leans against the door frame, arms folded across his chest as he watches Sam until he disappears from sight. He never takes the Impala and when he comes back the house is well buried under the shadows of the trees with Dean sitting on the steps, two beers beside him waiting.

Sam will sit next to him and they'll just sit and drink. There's never any stars.

Today there's a new crispness to the air. Dean thinks maybe snow is coming.

When Sam reappears he heads over to Dean, leaving foot prints that look muddy and gleaming in the weaning light. He sits down next to Dean, a box of pizza in the space between them and the smell of pepperoni and cheese overwhelming the fresh scent of damp earth, and when Dean tells him, his shoulders relax, the lines of his face easing. Sam looks up at the sky as if checking to see if Dean's prediction is probable.

"Yeah. I think so too."

  


  


  


  


~

The wind has died down when Dean rolls out of bed that night.

His eyes ache; he hasn't been able to shut them yet. Every time he tries the back of his neck starts to prickle, same way it does on a hunt. Something he can't see just waiting for him to relax, to slip up, so _it_ can slip in and cut through him to whatever it is it wants.

Dean sits up, swings bare feet onto the floor, scratching at the side of his neck.

Sam turns, spreading out and hogging Dean's side. Dean looks down at him. His arm is locked around the pillow Dean had been using and he buries his face in it, his hip pressing against Dean's thigh. Dean shakes his head, a thread of amusement and something softer twitching at his lips but he gets up anyway and goes to the kitchen.

It's cold enough that Dean considers just going back to bed, try and free up some of that space Sam's taken over.

Outside the bedroom it smells of the Chinese they'd brought back with them and stale beer. He hears a grunt from the bedroom and sees Sam spreading out that bit more with a wriggle.

This time he does give a light snort, let's himself relax enough that the smile spreads a little over his face.

Water. Water and then he'll go back to bed instead of standing out here and freezing his ass off like a moron.

In the dark he manages to locate a glass, holds it up and frowns at what might be a nasty ass stain on the underside of it, but he can't tell too well in the dark. The water comes out good and cold and Dean leans back against the counter.

He comes close to choking on it.

There's a woman standing an inch from his face, the knife held between her teeth gleaming dully and her hair spilling down her chest. It's not enough by far to hide her breasts or the dark curls between her legs but it's freaky enough that Dean doesn't give it much thought. She's grinning at him.

The shattering of the glass is heavy and sharp. The water splashes on his feet and pools around them. Little pieces of glass scatter on the floor but Dean's already yanking at a drawer, hand wrapping around the first thing he finds. A can opener. Whatever. He can fucking work with that.

He turns and all he sees is the other side of the room. His heart is ramming against his chest and he can feel the beat in the hollow of his throat.

When Dean glances at the bedroom, Sam edges into view, gun in hand and alert. He's got the crease of a pillow on his cheek and his t-shirt is riding up over his left hip. His grip relaxes and his arm lowers when Dean just stares at him for a moment. Then he looks at the broken glass at Dean's feet.

"Dean?" Sam comes into the room, still on alert, eyes roaming the rest of the room before coming back to Dean. He stops and rubs a rough hand over his eyes and sniffs loudly. "It's the box isn't it?"

"Yeah. I think it is."

~

"So, you're telling me it's as if the damn box were alive?" Dean asks.

Sam is leaning against the counter opposite Dean and between them the blackberry rests on the countertop, on loudspeaker.

"It's made out of a goddess's bones." Bobby's voice comes across. "That in itself would hold power enough to affect someone. The only reason there's any power to it at all is because part of the Goddess's soul is probably in the thing, creating a powerful kami."

"So, it'll just creep us out until one of us gives in and touches the thing?" Dean shakes his head.

Sam shifts against the counter and he crosses his arms, looks down at the phone as if he'll be able to see Bobby through it. "So, if Dean's seeing this thing, that means it works right?"

There's a pause on the other side, then, "Yes."

"Right," Sam looks up at Dean, "but we still don't know how to use it. I mean, it works but. How do we know it's not gonna just fixate on the wrong souls and drag them out instead?"

There's silence on the other line. "I'll keep looking into it."

~

It seems the porch is their favorite spot. Dean's not sure what it is about it.

When he'd been a kid he'd liked sitting on the porch, music blaring from the Impala's radio and Dad bent over the hood. The fresh green smell of cut grass and engine grease strong when he'd sat on the bottom step. Knowing that there'd be pie later after dinner and he'd get to play with Sammy after he woke from his nap.

On a rare good day anyway.

Those days, mom and dad had been going through a rough patch.

Funny. Dean never dwelled much on those. There were enough bad memories.

But this is different. This is Sam sitting down on the steps, head down and finger tracing over the damp wood, following the age lines, finger moving up and down as if following the line of a wave lapping up at the shore. He has a beer in his other hand and doesn't seem to mind the condensation pooling in the web of skin between thumb and forefinger, even when it spills down and along the line of his wrist.

Dean's back is braced against the balustrade, facing Sam's, one foot on the lower steps, the other on the deck. His hand holds the beer bottle in a loose clasp and it rests, cool through denim, against the inside of his thigh.

When Sam breathes in, his shoulders lift with it. "You put it away?"

Dean plays with the bottle, the tips of his fingers quickly becoming sticky from twirling it by the mouth of the bottle. "Yeah. Wrapped it up in a few layers. Don't think it'll do much good though." It won't. He can still feel it, like a balm made of broken, jagged pieces of bone, chafing his senses.

"Hmm." Sam nods.

Dean stops playing with the bottle and sets it down properly, shifting and leaning forward. He feels the air, touch icy on his lower back when his t-shirt rides up a little. The jacket he has on isn't enough to keep the cold out and he thinks again how without Sam underneath the blankets with him, the cold would snake under them, sinking through the fabric and soak him in it.

The breeze is playing a little dancing game with Sam's hair. It's grown long. They haven't really had time for any sort of personal grooming. Not that they ever had before. They just have even less of it now.

"How come I don't see it?" Sam asks, finally. He sets his bottle aside and wipes his hand on his jeans. He scoots back on the step and looks at Dean. His jaw is working, cheeks hollowing as if he were chewing on a blade of grass.

Dean gives a soft laugh. "I don't know Sam. Maybe I'm just lucky."

"Or maybe," Sam twisted, whole body facing Dean now and there's a spark of temper there, in the flatness of his tone. "It's that you're keeping that thing close to you all the time. What if that's what's causing this? If it's sentient it could be trying to attach itself."

Dean shakes his head and looks out, eyes following the invisible trail that they took to get to the house. The grass isn't all that lush. It looks like it'd be a dry yellow in spring, dried up in the middle of all the vivid trees. "Not something we know for sure. Bottom line is, we have to keep it close. And _you_ can't be the one to be near it."

Sam doesn't huff but it's a close thing. And it's almost enough to make Dean smile. "I—" Sam links his hands together, bowing his head over it, "it'd be nice. You know? If someone else could take the wheel for a while. Just seems that it's always us."

Dean sighs. "Don't think this one could be left to just anyone, Sammy."

Sam laughs. "Right, right. Cas." And there's that edge there again, those spikes of anger piercing the surface. It's not surprising. No matter how many times you think that maybe you've come to terms with all the shit, if Fate kicks hard enough and often enough, then someone's going to be itching for blood. Just the way it goes.

"Yeah," Dean says, watching the beer sloshing around in his bottle before putting it to his mouth.

Then Sam seems to calm himself and when he looks at Dean his mouth has softened and a dimple flickers briefly on his cheek as he tries, but fails, at what was probably an attempt at an apologetic smile. "It's just," he swallows, frowning for a bit, "I'm not—good right now. You know?"

Dean nods, movement slow. He's not looking away either. "I know, Sam."

Sam mimics him, his nod faster, jerkier. Then he's shoving his hair back from his face. "Me and you, though. Right?"

And this time Dean does chuckle, leaning back and feeling the balustrade dig into his back. "That's the way it's always been, man."

"Dean." And Sam isn't smiling with him, isn't relaxing under Dean's acknowledgement. He's watching Dean and the way he's watching him, the way his Adam's apple bobs as his throat works—

And the meaning sinks in. They've turned their backs on a lot of things that they were under the impression that they could still have. They're used to this. This is them.

Dean looks at his brother. "Yeah Sam. You and me."

~

They leave the box in the bedroom that night. Dean pried open a floorboard and stuffed it in there, putting another layer between the box and them. Then they'd sat and drawn as many protective sigils as they could. Dean didn't really feel like being paid another visit from the kami and Sam liked the idea of that even less.

Sam had stayed on the ground, eyebrows bearing down low with concentration as he'd drawn each one carefully, the white chalk bright against on the floor. By the time he'd been done, there'd been chalk on his cheek and smudged, powdery and fine on the pads of his fingers. He'd looked up at Dean, wiped the smudge on his cheek with the back of his hand and dropped the chalk on the floor. Dean had gathered their stuff from the bed and taken it over to the sofa.

Sam had come in a few seconds later, dragging the floppy mattress behind him.

~

Dean looks up, when Sam gets back. He's closing the door behind him and has two take away bags swinging in his hand. The black and white of the film on TV throws eerie batches of pale light at the room that don't stay still.

Sam stops by the couch, legs pressing against the sidearm. The smell of rain clings to him but Dean can't hear anything over the susurrus of the wind outside and the sharp shrill voice of the woman on the screen, vowels succinct and elegant, speaking of a different time. The food Sam brought with him smells of sweet pork and rice noodles.

"You took your time."

Sam shrugs. "Yeah well, the road seriously sucks right now." He tugs off his jacket and tosses it over the back of the couch before grabbing the bag again. He settles down on the other side of the mattress like Dean and lifts an eyebrow at him when he notices that the blankets are still sitting in the middle of the mattress in untidy lumps. He gives Dean a look.

"What?"

Sam shakes his head and hands one bag over.

In the end they don't bother with the blankets. Instead they end up using the mattress as a table for their card game, the number of empty beer bottles growing around them. The alcohol starts getting to Dean about the same time as the woman on TV starts screaming while in the shower (why is it always the shower?) and Sam's already slumped against the sofa, neck at an awkward angle and hands palm up on the floor. His head is back and he's got a soft snore going on. Dean smirks but it's ruined by the yawn stretching his mouth wide, his jaw even cracks a little.

Dean leans against the sofa too, pillowing his head on his arms, the lines of Sam's face blurring a little as he tries to keep his eyes clear; but sleep is coming for him, heavy and strengthened by beer. He stares a little hazily at the moles he can see, one by the corner of Sam's slack mouth, the other lower on his chin. He remembers that he's felt them before. Never at good times. With Bloody Mary, red bleeding thick and fast from Sam's eyes, in Cold Oak, needing Sam to keep his eyes open. He'd never actually paid attention to the soft rise of them pressed to the mound of his palm.

Touching them seems to come with a death call.

Dean wants to scoff at how fucked up it is but Sam gives a really loud snort, his mouth closes and tightens up before softening again and Dean forgets.

~

Dean opens his eyes a little, body rising out of sleep fast, muscles already tensing. His heart beat remains steady. Sometime since he'd fallen asleep he'd woken up and dragged Sam, muttering sleepily, onto the mattress with him and covered them both pretty poorly with the blankets.

Sam's back is to the door and he's curled up on his side. Dean can feel the knuckles of Sam's hand just brushing against his stomach where it lies between them. Sam's eyes are open and he's looking right at Dean.

There's someone outside. The sounds are faint, barely noticeable over the wind, but it's there.

Then the wind drops and it's quiet. Dean's eyes flick to the window just above them, the window he himself had peeked in through that first night. Neither he nor Sam move. At the window there's barely a twitch of a movement but Dean catches it before it's gone.

Dean almost startles when Sam uses the hand that's already close to him, curling his fingers into his palm and digging his knuckles into Dean's stomach to get his attention. The silent conversation is quick and to the point, spoken through a narrowing of the eyes and the barest of jerks of Sam's head towards the door.

Dean keeps his attention on the window and slips his hand under the sofa. His hand closes around his gun and he drags it out, pulling it close to his body. His hands rest over Sam's as he dips his head down and checks to make sure the rounds are in. There's a metallic gleam in the dark. Sam's got Ruby's knife in hand. Their countdown is silent too.

They've been at this place long enough to know where the floorboards creak when they walk and they close the short distance to the door without any sound other than soft exhalations. It's easy to keep the adrenalin from spiking too much. They stop at either side of the door and pressed to the wall. Their feet don't touch the salt line lining the sliver of a space between the door and the floor.

Dean takes another look at the window.

Sam's jaw tightens and he's got another blade in his other hand.

Dean opens the door and cuts in front of Sam, ignoring the frown aimed at him and stepping onto the porch first. His eyes scan quickly and he sees nothing but the tall shape of the trees surrounding them. Sam is warm at his back, keeping close as he slips outside just behind Dean and Dean barely resists the urge to elbow him back into the house.

They both keep their backs close to the wall of the house as they go. The cold air slips inside Dean's t-shirt, effortless, sucking out any warmth between his belly and the piece of clothing and goose pimples break out over his arms.

 

Just before the smell of sulfur hits, Dean feels the brush of Sam's shoulder against his shoulder blade—and then it's like someone's thrown a hook around him. The power of the tug is a sickening suction in his stomach that Dean doesn't have time to acknowledge before he knocks into the tree. It scrapes raw lines down the side of his arm and takes some skin off his hip. His temple knocks against it pretty hard.

" _Dean!_ "

Dean blinks down at the ground, shakes his head. Mistake. It just makes the black spots bloom into bursts of yellow and purple like fucking fireworks. He shoves himself back to his feet, soft wet leaves clinging to the palm of his hand. He sways for a moment, unsure that his balance is all his.

When he glances back at the house there are two people blocking his way. A short blond thing and a guy who very nearly matches Sam in build. Their eyes are shiny black tourmaline and Dean readjusts his grip on the gun. It ain't gonna do jack shit but he can hammer their skulls in if he has to.

A look over at their heads at where he'd been standing with Sam only a few seconds ago, shows an empty space and with a squint, a broken line of salt.

Well fuck. No guessing what they're looking for then.

The big guy takes a step towards Dean and Dean straightens up, arms stiffening and forming into a stance. He fires off two rounds in quick succession; the demon grunts as both knee caps take a pop and he hits the ground with a hiss, eyes blinking up at Dean and mouth carved into a snarl.

Salt rounds don't kill. Doesn't mean they won't hurt like motherfucker. But he's already eyeing the girl. She hadn't so much as flinched at the gunshots and now her eyes are on Dean. There's a little smile flirting around the edges of her mouth as she rounds the demon still on the ground, hand tracing the length of the demon's shoulders. Dean knows he won't stay down long.

"What you smiling at bitch?" he asks, chin nodding at her. He doesn't look back at the house, doesn't let himself give in to the need to search for Sam because that's just going to make this all a lot harder.

Breaking glass has his head snapping up against his will and he catches a glimpse of someone running out from behind the house and a body lying in the doorway. His heart skips a beat. But a second later there's Sam, running right after the person disappearing.

And then Dean's being struck to the ground, two short, powerful blows to his chest and stomach that feel like they should've gone through him. He barely stays on his feet, doubles over instead, coughing out air and wheezing.

The girl wiggles her fingers at him with a smile. Dean can see her over the big guy's shoulder as he towers over him now.

Dean tries for a cocky smile, knows he manages it by the way the big guy's eyebrow twitches. "I'll be seeing you again, bitch." And the backhand sends him flying. He'll have a colorful bruise for that one later, too.

The next shot he fires hits the guy right between the eyes and Dean watches, teeth grinding against the pain racing the side of his face as the guy flies back.

Dean wipes at the sting on the corner of his mouth and thumbs away the blood there. He can taste it, lining the soft inside of his mouth. He walks back over to the guy, tucks the gun away. He hefts the guy by his shirt.

The nose cracks under his fist and his knuckles are numb for a second before the fire spreads, hot and painful but Dean's bringing his fist down again and this time the demon's head snaps to the side. His neck is at an awkward angle now but Dean's already looking at the direction Sam too and starts muttering the exorcism fast. The minute the black substance stops pouring out of the man's mouth, leaving only the strong smell of sulfur clinging to the cold air, Dean doesn't spare him another glance.

His feet slip and slide on muddied leaves as he makes straight for the trees.

He can't be too far behind them because he can hear the running. The sky is lightening but the trees still look like mass shapes of black.

But then he sees the knife, jammed right through the bark of a tree, and a body on the ground, slumped against it. The line of red goes from one side to the other, like a pseudo smile on the man's neck. Dean stops just to yank the blade out, the familiar curve of it fitting into his palm and sending alarm through him at the same time. Sam'd left Ruby's knife to him.

Shit.

He speeds up. There's a rustle and Dean's turning, blade up and across, ready to slide through anything.

"Dean—"

Dean lowers the blade when he sees Sam jogging towards him, chest heaving. His eyes flick over Dean quickly. They zero in on the side of Dean's face, the scrapes on his arm. "There's more, about three more. The girl, she's got the box Dean. She— _there_!"

Dean spins around to follow the line of Sam's finger even as they both break into a run.

Dean runs fast. The fucking box. Sam's right behind him.

"Sam." He snaps out, tosses the knife over his shoulder, knows Sam's got it.

"But—"

"Just take it." The muscles of his thighs are burning up now as he weaves around the damn trees, not slowing down. He can see the yellow leather of her jacket, winking in and out of sight between the trees. He can see the press of white to her side, tucked under her arm, the cloth the box had been in, gone. Where are the others?

He's wheezing from the blows to his chest and stomach still but when he sees another two demons running for the stream he sucks it up and pushes himself. Low branches tear at his coat, his face, leaving little stinging trails on his cheeks, his ears, his neck.

He hits the bottom of the slope three seconds after she does, the other demons a little behind him and he takes her down in a tackle around the middle. The momentum sends them into the water. The splash soaks him and the water seeps into his clothes fast, even as he shoves her face down into the water. And fuck its cold.

Dean shakes the water out of his eyes, presses his knee to the small of her back even as she thrashes, growls like nails on blackboards tearing out of her throat. The other two are behind him and just as one rams into his back, he snatches up the box.

It hurts more than every fucking punch he's ever taken and he doesn't understand what's happening.

All he knows is that he's on his back on the stream, can feel the water rippling over his throat, his chest and his legs. The woman, the kami, is sitting astride him, her smile feral. She's got one hand on his abdomen and the other going to the hilt of the knife clamped between her teeth. She doesn't stop grinning and she leans down over him, her hair rippling in the water as the stream tries to take it.

All the while it's like electric ice is being fed into his veins, it feels like they're throbbing, like its filling his veins to their limit and they're pushing against his skin, trying to burst through.

She rips right into the middle of his chest, blade tearing a path down his torso.

Dean hears his name over a loud ringing in his ears. His vision swims and the woman presses herself all along his body and this time he can feel her, her nipples tight and firm through his wet t-shirt and she's shuddering and—he thinks maybe he passes out. He's not sure.

"Dean, _Dean_ , you gotta let go. Let it go!" There's pressure on his shoulders and he thinks maybe that's Sam. He can't manage more than a groan though.

The power running through him is sickening, lodging in his throat and building there, frying up his nerve endings and he's not sure he can do what Sam's asking him to; can barely even think over the pain radiating out from his chest.

"Dean. Listen to me. This thing. It just took out the demons. Let it go, or it's grabbing a hold of me next. You hear me?"

He tries to take in a deep breath, to focus and get the message to the hand still clamped around the box. And they give—just slightly. He barely registers the harsh scrape over the back of his fingers that knocks the box out of his grasp completely. There's a last wrench in his chest, like a knife trying to cleave deeper and then it's gone. It feels like someone just spent an hour hollowing out his chest with a teaspoon and his head is one jumbled mess of noise and scratchy vision.

He's pulled up into a sitting position and he knows that it's Sam pressing warm and hard against his side. The hand that cups his face is cold and wet and he lets it guide him. The teeth from the zipper of Sam's jacket bite into his cheek.

Crap. But that rush of power is still zigzagging around inside him, and the feeling in his stomach grows worse, his throat constricting with it.

"Damn it, shit is like—fucking magic crack—" and he just about manages to roll over to the side to retch. Sam rubs a hand down his back and Dean's not in control of his senses enough to know if that's Sam's head resting against the back of his neck. He thinks it might be. "Guess at least now we know how it works," he manages to croak out.

"Shut up. Dean. Just—don't." And with that Sam hauls him up, hands too tight on Dean's forearms. He won't look Dean in the face. Dean thinks Sam's shaking too but that could just be him. "We're getting out of here."

~

Sam doesn't bother with taking Dean's clothes off. He just drags Dean under the spray of water. Dean jerks as it hits him and Sam slips. Dean's breath leaves him in a rush as he hits the wall. The hand Sam's got on his upper arm keeps him from letting his legs do what they've wanted to do since they started their walk back, and slip to the floor into a useless pile.

"Sorry. Sorry—it'll get warmer," Sam says.

Dean nods, let's his eyes close and rests his head back against the yellowed tiles. Sam's hands feel hot on his arms.

"Should salt the doors." There's an echo in the back of his head, like the words have to travel a long way to make it out of his mouth.

Big hands cup his cheeks, rasping against the stubble along the line of his jaw. Then he feels the firm press of another forehead against his. He realizes that the tremors are coming from Sam.

He swallows, dips his head to keep the spray from hitting him in the face, temple pressing against Sam's cheek. "Sam?" His arms feel heavy but he lifts them anyway and tries to put some distance between them, get a good look at Sam. Maybe he was hurt somewhere and Dean's been so out of it he hasn't even noticed. Fuck. "Sam, you okay?"

Sam stays right where he is though, doesn't even move far enough for Dean to see his face.

"I saw her Dean."

"You saw who?" And his voice has gentled and he's got his hands steadying Sam right back. He's hot one hand over the cusp of Sam's shoulder and the other one on Sam's hip. Dean blinks water out of his eyes, realizes the obvious. Sam is standing under the shower with him and his shirt and t-shirt are completely plastered to him, heavy with water where Dean's touching.

"She was ripping you open," the tremors still, Dean hears Sam dragging in rasping breaths, "with a knife, trying to climb into you."

Right. _That's_ what Sam's talking about. Dean lets his head fall back again. The water hits his throat instead, but it's warmer now and around them, the cold bathroom is starting to fog up. "Sounds kinda dirty." The words are just a mumble a very weak attempt at easing the tension.

"It's not funny."

"Yeah, didn't feel fun at the time either." The water is running over his eyes and Dean squeezes them shut a couple of times, trying to keep it from getting in. "Wait. You _saw_ her?" That hadn't really happened before.

"You went down. Powers acted up."

Huh. Funny how hearing Sam touch on that subject so directly didn't bother him as much as Dean had thought it would. Ground doesn't shake, lightning doesn't strike. Been there, done that, he supposes.

Dean squeezes Sam's shoulder, reassuring. "Okay." Then he shifts against the wall, jeans uncomfortable. His boots are still on and right now he just wants to stay under the hot water and soak it up until it doesn't feel like his bones stop feeling brittle as ice picks. "Hey man, why don't you just go rest a bit? You can salt the doors too. I'll be good." He thinks, anyway. Legs aren't quite there yet but Sam doesn't need to know that.

Not that Sam seems to care. He's shaking his head and his hands drop to Dean's shoulders.

"Dean."

Dean looks up and gets a glimpse of the mole just on Sam's chin before Sam is bending his head down, fingers digging into Dean's shoulders. He doesn't even seem to remember the injury there. And Dean thinks, in a kind of not-all-there-way, that it's a good thing he hasn't quite thawed out because otherwise that'd be hurting a whole lot more right now.

Sam's mouth is really fucking soft. But that's only for a split second. Just a split second of that softness and then Dean is being crowded into the shower wall. Sam's hands leaving his shoulders in favor of spearing into his hair and keeping his head pinned to the wall as Sam draws back, regroups. He licks his lips, stares at Dean, body cleaving to Dean's.

"I already fixed up the salt lines."

"Oh." Dean can't say much else to that. Sam's thumbs are rubbing rough circles around his temples and the cold is being overtaken by liquid warmth. And Sam's warm. Fuck. Sam is always warm.

So Dean grabs him back. Not as tight as he would've liked. He can't manage that just yet, not with the thing still buzzing around inside him like it's trying to claw deep into meat and muscle and not leave. Dean can feel its damn presence in the house but it fades enough under the weight of _Sam_.

Their teeth knock and Sam's incisor slices into Dean's bottom lip. He tastes the tang of blood against the roof of his mouth. Sam opens his mouth and Dean slips his tongue inside. Sam's hand finds the back of Dean's neck, practically cradles his head as he pushes back. He's not standing still now; he's pushing into Dean with his whole body, thigh pressed against thigh. He steps on Dean in his haste, mumbles an apology into Dean's mouth before catching his bottom lip and sucking on it, only letting go after a sharp nip.

Dean presses his face into the crook of Sam's neck, catches the faint scent of sweat beneath the running water. He can't help rubbing his face into it as his hands, uncoordinated, reach between them and tug at the wet clothing. Which is fucking irritating. He catches the edges of it between his fingers and tugs up. "Off."

Sam's nodding, leaning back. He overbalances and has to let go of Dean, to slap a hand on the other side of the wall and keep his balance. His hips though, are still pressed firmly against Dean and as Sam fumbles to get both layers off in one go, Dean grips Sam's hips. His mouth is sore from the rough kiss. He stares dazedly at Sam's happy trail, wonders how come he never noticed how low Sam's jeans rode and his thumbs slip down and inside, following the ridge of bone under wet denim.

Then Sam gives him more to look at. Sam's shirt and top hit the floor of the shower with a loud plop, a mix of red and black wrapped around the white t-shirt. The water at the bottom gains a pink tinge.

Sam goes right for Dean's t-shirt. It's up and off, Sam's ever present concern for Dean's shoulder gone as he gets the thing off him in no time and tosses it on top of his own clothes. His hands spread, big and unsteady over Dean's chest. He tugs on the back of Dean's neck again, mouthing at Dean's temple. His other hand wraps around Dean's bicep, traces the muscle there and then up to the swelling still obvious to the touch on his shoulder.

Dean's just gotten himself into a pretty nice place, dick hard, pressed right up against Sam's thigh and just about to settle into a dirty grind. But Sam stops, his fingers gentling their touch on Dean's shoulder.

He pulls away and Dean stays against the wall. The hot water beats down on his bare chest. It's red now from rubbing against Sam. Sam's hair is clinging to the bridge of his nose, the arch of an eyebrow. Sam's still stroking the swelling, fingers soft.

"Sam?" He's panting still, turned on and pretty confused at this point. If they're going to freak out about this—which they should and probably will—now is not the time.

Sam looks up from where his fingers are rubbing against Dean's skin. The look he gives Dean is a mixture of puppy dog and soft arousal. "Turn around," he says, request voiced in a quiet tone, not as demanding as the words themselves. "I wanna see."

Dean watches him for a second longer. Then he complies. Sam helps him out, hand flattening up Dean's side and running over his ribs, down over his stomach. His thumb hooks over Dean's belly button as Dean comes face to face with the wall, knee knocking against it. Dean swears, drops his head, mouth falling open as the water runs down his face, dropping off his lips. He can't help the way his stomach contracts at the touch and thinks this isn't really helping at all when it comes to how unsteady he's already feeling.

But now Sam's lips are brushing the back of his shoulder, lipping at the wound and licking at it, his teeth a gentle scrape, his front a long line of heat cleaving to Dean's back.

And then there's the clink of belt and Dean's staring at the edge of black on the lines dividing up the tiles. He's staring hard and breathing just as hard. So's Sam, Dean can feel it against his skin.

"Dean. _Dean_." Sam's grinding against him, hard cock against Dean's ass and shit that's gotta be chafing. Except that Sam's tugging at Dean's jeans now too and Dean's leaning his head against the tile, hands fisting either side of him.

"Come on," he's muttering, doesn't know if he's talking to Sam or himself.

Sam let's go of Dean's jeans and they don't make it past his thighs, too wet to go anywhere without being forcefully tugged off. But it's enough and Sam's cock, hard and wet and fuck—that feels fucking huge—rubs right up the crack of Dean's ass.

Sam groans. He shudders against Dean's back and let's Dean take on a little of his weight.

Then Sam's hand is wrapping around Dean's dick. He pumps once from base to tip, thumb teasing over the head and Dean shouts, head snapping back and air hissing out between his teeth. His hips jerk into the touch and he reaches back with one hand, grabs onto Sam's hip. "Yeah."

And that seems to be enough of an encouragement for Sam to go for it. His hips snap up against Dean, riding the crack of Dean's ass, jerking Dean off too hard, so hard Dean comes close to pulling his hand away twice. It's good too.

Sam's breath starts hitching as he gets close and he settles into a slow grind, buries his head on Dean's shoulder and Dean grits his teeth as Sam lets out a muffled moan and puts his teeth to his shoulder. He feels it, Sam's come warm and clinging for a moment, slipping between his ass cheeks before the water washes it away.

After a few seconds, Sam stops biting into his shoulder. He presses his head against it instead. "Sorry." He murmurs, breath still heaving. And Dean twists his neck round to look at him, thinking Sam's talking about the bite. But then Sam starts jacking him off again, this time slower, just right and Dean lets out a low _fuck_ , thrusts into the wet, warm grip until he's coming, biting into his lip and trembling against Sam as Sam jerks him off through it in gentle pulls.

And then there's just warm water, steam all over the place and Sam wrapped around him.

Dean's not cold anymore but he's not feeling any less shaky.

He says the only thing that comes to mind.

"Well, shit."

~

They park just off the road. The sunlight is watery as he and Sam get out of the car. The clouds drifting across the sky blanket the light for a moment, leaving them in a cold shadow. The Impala shudders as Sam shuts the door and digs his hands deep into his pockets, shoulders hunching against the cold. He looks at Dean over the roof of the car and nods at the wrapped up box in Dean's hands.

"You okay?"

Dean starts rounds the car and they both move to the narrow sidewalk. It hasn't really changed much from the last time they were there. Red bricked walls covered in thin, crude graffiti, newspaper worn by weather and cars shifting across rough concrete. The little side street smells of piss and garbage and there's a few condoms along the way. They'd been to worse.

"I'll be fine as soon as this thing is locked up." He feels like he just crawled out of his grave, the effects of the box not having completely worn off. And there's a pull there, one that's not entirely safe. It's tough feeling power like that. Like a hit of straight up magic dust that takes someone to the highest they can go and leaves them buzzing. Even when all it really did was attempt to use and suck its vessel dry at the same time.

Their little attempt at warming up in the shower probably hadn't been the best idea either. As if echoing the thought, his injured shoulder throbs, the wound still feeling raw from Sam aggravating it all over again. When Dean lifts a hand to try and soothe it, he finds Sam watching him quietly.

Dean ducks his head, throat working. "Don't start up with the shoulder again. It's fine."

"Alright." Sam looks on ahead. "I see Bobby."

Dean looks up. And there's Bobby standing just outside the entrance to the depot. He's got something in his hands. One of the larger curse boxes, Dean guesses.

Bobby eyes Dean when they get close enough. "Well, you look like hell."

Dean's already handing over the box. "Yeah. Your sentient box or whatever you call it, sweet on me." Sam's standing a little too close behind Dean. Dean sees the odd look Bobby sends his way but says nothing. "You know, we could've come down here on our own. Didn't need to come all the way down here."

Bobby cuts him a glare that pretty much calls him all kinds of stupid and then hands Dean the curse box. "Shut up and open that, ya idjit."

Dean glances up at Sam, gets a shrug, and opens the box. Like Dean had thought, this one is a bigger version of the box that had guarded the rabbit's food a year or so back and as soon as Dean gets it open, Bobby sets the wrapped up one Dean and Sam brought with them inside.

The moment he flips the lid shut and locks the thing, Dean feels all his muscles unlock. The feel of that thing crowding around the edges of his mind, dissipates as if it'd never been. He looks up at Bobby, stunned.

"Better?"

Dean nods.

"Good." Bobby turns and starts making his way to an old car Dean assumes is his. "Now, why don't you get back in that car of yours. We got things to discuss and I ain't had breakfast yet."

"Everything okay Bobby?" Sam asks, frowning.

Bobby stops by the driver's side and looks over at them. His face is grave and right then, he looks tired and like he doesn't want to say what he's about to.

"I've got a lock on Castiel," he looks from Sam to Dean and then gives a slow nod to the box in Dean's hand, "gonna be time to put that thing to use soon." Then he jerks the door open and slips inside. "Now stop standing there and get moving. Car ain't gonna drive itself."

They stand there and watch as Bobby starts up the car.

Dean lets the hand holding the boxes drop to his side and starts walking without looking at Sam. "Let's go Sam."

"Dean."

"What?"

"It'll be fine."

Dean glances up at him, pausing for a second. Sam watches him back calmly.

"I'm not saying it'll be easy, but." He shrugs and looks back down to where Bobby's waiting, ready to go.

Dean looks down at the box, a small pain in the ass object. And a weapon that they can use knowing that maybe they're not killing what used to be one of their closest friends.

"Yeah. Yeah okay."

And together they walk back to the car.

Dean tosses the box in the back and slides into the driver's seat. It's Sam that leans forward and turns the music on as Dean pulls the car out and slips in behind Bobby.

Besides. It's what they do.

It's just the same old road they've been driving in their whole lives.

Sam settles down and ACDC blares into the car. Dean slips into the main street behind Bobby. And they'll go from there.

THE END


End file.
